


Something Borrowed, Something Blue

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adulthood, Aftercare, Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Analingus, Ass Play, Biting, Blood Drinking, Body Hair, Body Worship, Breeding, Cock Bondage, Cock Slut, Come Eating, Comeplay, Consensual Kink, Creampie, Cuckolding, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Filthy, Finger Sucking, Flirting, Foot Fetish, Foreplay, Hotel Sex, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Married Life, Mid-life Crisis, Monsterfucking, Nipple Play, One Night Stands, Oral Fixation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Third Person, Pet Names, Post-Canon, Power Play, Relationship Issues, Relationship Status: It's Complicated, Rimming, SPOILERS in the tags starting here, Seduction, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Sex is weird once you've been married for a while ya dig?, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Roleplay, Shameless Smut, Simon Snow's Wings and Tail, Slut shaming but in a sexy way not a mean way, Sort Of, Spit As Lube, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tail Sex, This is basically one long sex scene, Vampires, and it's really filthy and yet also kind of tender, i dunno man, implied exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29449356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: Baz has just been going through the motions lately.He didn't even realize that the flame of his marriage has been snuffed out for some time now.But then he's approached at the bar.By Simon.Brazen Simon, who buys him a drink and lights a match in Baz's heart.Simon isn't wearing a wedding ring, but he's quick to point out that Baz is. It's a challenge for him, seeing if he can lure Baz somewhere private.Seducing a married man isn't easy.But they're both more than willing to put the effort in.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 18
Kudos: 192
Collections: Snowbaz Sweethearts Fic Exchange 2021





	Something Borrowed, Something Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xivz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/gifts).



> Thank you to Liz and Caity for cheering me on while I wrote this.  
> Xivz, I hope you enjoy this depravity, 🖤🖤🖤

He’s seated at the bar, nursing a drink—the house red, to be exact. It’s inoffensive, like the rest of this establishment. Boringly modern and not too boisterous. Which is good; half-past six on a Tuesday evening is never the most exciting time to go out, thankfully. He’s not interested in any surprises tonight. Things at work and home have been complicated enough already. Some overpriced food and drinks accompanied by semi-forced conversation is all the effort he’s willing to put in.

That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? He’s been going through the motions lately.

Not just lately …

One thought brings him to the next, and before he realizes it, he’s scrolling through work emails on his mobile—the sort that never stop coming in. He goes for another sip of wine, but, oh, it’s empty. Already? How long has he been sitting here?

It’s nearly seven. He checks his text messages instead. Nothing new, of course. The messages he wants are the ones he isn’t getting. It’s always like that. It didn’t use to be.

How long has it been since things were exciting?

No. He doesn’t want exciting. Those years have come and gone. And good thing! He’ll gladly avoid any of that drama— _truly_. But still … there’s a certain … yearning. A restlessness.

 _Mid-life crisis_ , is the label his mind bitterly supplies.

He wonders if he can shatter his empty wine glass if he simply scowls at it hard enough.

“Hey,” comes a warm, male voice over the building background noise. (The music got louder at some point.) (When?) “Mind if I join you?”

He looks up from his mobile with a hint of weariness. His lashes flutter, though far from in a becoming way; rather, it’s a hint towards an eyeroll not quite brought to life. His stern mouth opens as he readies himself to reply—

“I’m Simon,” the man quickly cuts in. “What’s your name?” The man’s grin causes his cheeks to bunch up and his eyes to get all crinkled and squinty. It’s an unguarded smile, the kind that disarms the viewer in turn, whether you want it to or not.

He stares up at this smiling man, thoughts going hazy around the edges. “…what?”

The man’s smile is a paradox—it grows both bolder and more sheepish. His cheeks go pink, blending his splatter of freckles and moles into a beautiful mess of detail. “I-I’m introducing myself to you,” he explains in a voice that’s too pronounced, as though he’s ignorantly offering louder and simpler words to someone who doesn’t speak the language. “I’m Simon. S-so, what’s _your_ name?”

He continues to stare, arching his brow, at a loss for how to respond. What a curious approach…. He wants to see how this plays out—though not without watching the man squirm for a few moments longer. He does it so deliciously, after all. Such a long neck, with a prominent Adam’s apple. A good place to bite.

Slowly, slowly, once his eyebrow is as high as it can go, he acquiesces, setting down his mobile and offering this man— _Simon_ —his hand. “You can call me Basil,” he says.

Simon’s smile quirks as he exhales in relief. “Basil,” he repeats, testing out the sounds on his tongue. He clasps their hands together in a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Basil.”

“I’d like to return the sentiment, but it might be too early to say.”

Simon laughs more heartily at that and finally plops onto the barstool on Basil’s left. “Hard to please, are you?”

Basil’s response is its own sort of paradox—he straightens his posture and looks away, all dismissive airs, yet his mouth is soft and full as he drawls, “Perhaps you’ll find out.”

And so the game is afoot, simple as that.

Simon feels his pulse tumble about with anticipation. It’s loud enough, he wouldn’t be surprised if Basil could hear it. That’s a distracting thought, and he can’t afford distracting thoughts right now, not if he intends to see this through. (And oh, he does—he most certainly does.)

“Were you waiting for someone?” Simon asks with a small jerk of his chin in the direction of Basil’s mobile. The screen is still lit up, a message exchange on display.

With deft fingers, Basil plucks up the phone and slips it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He locks eyes with Simon. “Not any more,” he says. His gaze is a smoky grey and his brows are dark and sharp. He peers at Simon like it’s a challenge. A dangerous one.

Simon has always liked a bit of danger. Or he did, in his younger years. That was half a lifetime ago; since then, Simon has grown soft with complacency. (And good food, as the pleasant layer of fat over barely-maintained muscles proves.) It’s well past time for him to get excited about something again.

“No?” he challenges Basil right back. He reaches his left hand out to rub his thumb across the band on Basil’s left ring finger. A thrill runs through him at the contact, and Basil’s breath catches. “This for decoration, then?”

Basil wets his lips as he studies their hands. Simon’s ring finger is naked, the only mark of interest a small freckle on the inside, hardly visible. Basil’s wedding band winks back in shades of blue from the lights of the bar. Blue, blue … blue like his husband’s eyes …

They lock gazes again. Simon’s eyes are blue—noticeably so, even in the tinted lighting. Blue, and expressive, and _brazen_. More brazen than Basil has seen in his husband’s eyes in some time now. The realization makes something coil deep in his belly.

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Basil replies at length.

“All right. I won’t tell.” Simon winks. It’s cheesy and absurd, like the rest of him. Another surge of attraction washes through Basil. He’s half-tempted to sink a hand into Simon’s ridiculous flop of curls and kiss him, right here against the bar, but then Simon is talking again: “Can I buy you a drink?”

“You _may._ ”

Simon purchases a second glass of wine for Basil and a scotch on the rocks for himself, which earns him another incredulous hoist of Basil’s expressive brow. “What?” he laughs.

“You don’t strike me as a man interested in scotch.”

Simon leans against the bar, mostly facing Basil, all open body-language. “Oh, really? And what do I strike you as, then?”

Basil makes a face. Most people would interpret it as a sneer of disgust; Simon is happy to interpret it as mere playfulness. “A man who’s proud of his cider-induced belching.”

“Cider-burps wouldn’t be a very good way to pull a posh bloke like you, I’d think.”

“Tell that to my husband.”

Simon winces. “Thought we weren’t going to talk about that.”

“Having doubts?” Basil twists in his seat to face Simon more directly. He keeps his posture proud and broad, hoping that his suit is stretching attractively over his shapes. Age hasn’t been kind to his hair—what was once a rich black is now streaked with greys—but his body is as long and lean as ever. (The increased boniness of his joints is only a distant concern at the moment.)

Simon swallows, gaze immediately dropping to Basil’s legs, following the inner seam of his trousers from knee to groin. He can’t actually make out the shapes of Basil’s dick, but that doesn’t stop him from conjuring up a lovely mental image.

“No doubts,” Simon assures. He flicks his eyes back up and is startled to feel something spark between them when their eyes meet. _Oh_. “Not a single fucking doubt.”

Basil grins, slow and dark. He lifts his wine glass without breaking eye contact. “Cheers.” The sip he takes is calculated—he tilts his chin up and away just so, eyes falling shut as the muscles of his pale throat constrict and relax. Simon exhales hard through his nose, barely resisting the urge to loosen Basil’s tie and collar for a better view. He’s sufficiently distracted from that thought by the allure of Basil’s mouth as he pulls away his glass and runs his tongue over wine-stained lips.

Suddenly extremely thirsty, Simon takes a harsh swig of his scotch. (He’s proud of himself for not baulking at the strength of the alcohol—it’s only recently that he’s developed a taste for drinks like this.) (And only just.)

“Well, go on,” Basil prods.

“Huh?”

“You’re trying to pull me, aren’t you?”

Simon rubs the back of his neck with a lopsided smile. “If the visuals aren’t enough for you, then I might be out of luck—I’m not the best at chatting someone up. Or … chatting, full-stop.”

“Hmm…”

Basil gives him a long once-over. Simon has an undeniably attractive face and wonderful hair. It’s bronze, not a grey in sight, clipped shorter on the back and sides, then blooms out into curls on top. It’s a lovely mess, made for tugging—exactly how Basil likes it. And his body … Simon’s shoulders and chest are broad. He fills out his clothes in a way that convinces Basil to forgive the banality of Simon’s fashion choices. Generic jeans, a button-up with a boring green and brown plaid pattern, and enough buttons undone to spy that the shirt he’s wearing underneath is some faded graphic-tee that’s seen better years.

“The visuals need improvement,” Basil decides.

“Ouch.”

“Less of,”—he waves a lazy circle at Simon—“all that.”

Simon’s defences fly up. “All _what?_ ” he grunts. “ _Me?_ ”

Basil leans in so Simon doesn’t miss the taps of his tongue as he articulates his response: “ _Clothes_.”

“Less cl—? Oh— I—” Simon goes blotchy and sputters out a laugh. “God. Right. Very smooth.”

Basil smirks. “Good to know I haven’t entirely lost my touch.”

“No way. I’m quite charmed by you.”

“Who’s supposed to be pulling who, here?”

Simon laughs again and takes another sip of his drink. “If you’re already propositioning me to take my clothes off, then my work is done, innit?”

“That was flirting, not a proposition. You’ll have to work harder than that to seduce a married man.” Basil pushes a hand through his hair, though it slips forwards into his face again soon enough. It’s silky and well-cared for, layered so it falls in waves that kiss his sharp cheekbones, his jaw, and the top of his suit collar. He may be cursed with more grey than he would like at this age, but at least his hairline has held strong; his stark widow’s peak is as prominent as ever.

He knows his visuals naturally scream ‘vampire’, all the more so as he takes another sultry sip of red wine. He’s happy to lean into the character when it behoves him. Simon is clearly interested—Basil can sense the thrum of something barely restrained under the other man’s skin. Something wild. Feral.

But is Simon looking to be predator or prey?

Basil isn’t yet sure. He gets goosebumps at the prospect of finding out.

Either way, Simon is determined to keep them both on alert. He gradually invades more of Basil’s personal space while they carry a nice enough conversation. He’s been described as bumbling and oafish quite often in life, but what very few people comprehend is how skilled with his body Simon truly is. When needs must, he has precise control. It allows him to seek out all the subtle ways he can hover near his target, letting the air between them shimmer with potential as he tells Basil about himself. Any dullness in his storytelling is made up for by a leg slotted between Basil’s, a hand resting millimetres away on the bar, the stretch of his torso past Basil to offer payment for another round of drinks—his endless suggestions of contact are never fulfilled.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all.

Basil is a patient man—usually. He spent much of his youth pining and letting his many thirsts go unquenched. That was a long time ago, however. He’s forgotten what it’s like to deny himself in this regard, especially when the insinuation of what Simon is offering is so potent, he swears he can taste it. Oh yes, Simon would go down smoother than any wine….

He needs this game to progress to the next level.

Basil’s plotting is interrupted by someone shoving their way to the bar and elbowing him in the process. Despite their quick apology, Basil can’t help but look hacked off. While he and Simon have been talking, the music has been growing louder and more patrons have been squeezing in.

Simon hops to his feet, seizing the opportunity. “Place is wall-to-wall now, innit? Getting hard to hear you over the music. How about we step outside?”

As would be expected, the pavement isn’t exactly the ideal spot for an intimate conversation, even once they shuffle a few doors down from the noisy surroundings of the bar. But seeing as Basil followed him out here without an air of protest, Simon decides to push his luck.

“Here’s not great either. Why don’t we find somewhere private?”

Basil gifts Simon with a quirk of his brow. “Such as…?”

“I passed a hotel on my way from the Tube,” he offers with a vague gesture down the street.

“A hotel,” Basil baulks. “That’s extremely forward of you.”

Simon slips close with what he hopes is a dashing sort of grin. “How long are you gonna keep playing hard-to-get, hmm? Let’s stop fucking around and just … Er.” He shrugs.

“Get to fucking?” Basil supplies.

“Yeah.” Simon grins wider, even though he knows damn well Basil was only being a prat. “Let’s cut to the good stuff.”

Basil scoffs. “Surely you recall I’m a married man.”

Simon shifts even closer, crowding Basil against whatever unimportant storefront they’re currently blocking. “I remember,” he murmurs dangerously. “I think we both know that’s what’s going to make this even better.”

Fuck.

Basil casts his mind about for a slick response, but he’s bereft of any intelligent thought whatsoever. Simon’s close enough for Basil to feel his body heat and to catch the faint tang of sweat on him. He wants to lick it off.

His nose twitches, the magic of the moment broken by the sudden odour of someone lighting a cigarette a few steps away. It’s still an intoxicating scent, even after all these years. He clears his throat to rid himself of the thought. There are far more appealing things for him to occupy his mouth with, after all.

“All right,” he purrs into Simon’s ear. “You can take me to bed. But you better make it worth my while.”

Simon can’t suppress the pleased growl that rumbles out of him. “I think I can manage that.”

And then they’re off, hurrying through the cloud of nicotine towards something that promises to be far, far dirtier.

 _This is wrong_ , Basil thinks, following Simon into the hotel mere moments later. _Objectively speaking._

Perhaps that thought shouldn’t excite Basil as much as it does. But he’s always been a bit disturbed. Ask anyone.

The wrongness only heightens the allure. An elicit shag in the nearest hotel room with a man from the bar—it’s absolutely absurd. This is the sort of thing a twenty-year-old does, drunk and horny and starving for any sort of connection, no matter how carnal. This isn’t the sort of thing a married man in his forties does. Especially not a man who never had that phase in his twenties to begin with.

No—that’s not right. He wants it so badly precisely _because_ he never had that phase. He began dating his husband when they were eighteen, and that was that—to put it simply. There were no slutty uni years in Basil’s life, no pub crawls, no hookups with strangers with whom their sole commonality was the use of the same app.

So, now …

Well, now he’s _giggling_ for some reason as Simon pushes him up against the door to their hotel room the moment it’s shut. He tugs Simon closer by the hips, craving the crush of him. All the denial of contact in the bar has worked as brilliant foreplay; they’re both already half-plump with eagerness by the time their groins come into contact. Heat floods them and passes between their colliding bodies like a feedback loop.

Simon wastes no time sliding his tongue between Basil’s open, mirthful lips. The kiss is sloppy and loud—Simon is huffing through his nose, devoid of any composure as he licks inside Basil’s mouth anywhere he can get. It should be unappealing, yet Basil can’t resist moaning as Simon devours him.

This is wrong—and stupid—and he _wants_ it so badly, it’s driving him mad.

They kiss as though they’ve never kissed before, frantic and careless, hands fisted in fabric, lips bitten, saliva smeared, bodies uselessly grinding together as the hinges of the door are put to the test. Simon tastes like scotch and smells like lingering cigarette smoke, and it makes Basil feel like a teenager again, stealing kisses from a boy in his father’s library, pretending like he’s not getting off on the fear of being caught.

Frenetic humping isn’t enough. They fumble further into the room as they shed shoes, trousers, Basil’s jacket and tie … until they’re both kneeling on the bed, Simon down to his T-shirt and pants, and Basil only wearing the latter.

“Sexy,” Basil says, eyeing Simon’s white briefs.

Despite the acrid flavour of Basil’s particular brand of flirting, Simon isn’t dismayed—after all, Basil is clad in plain, white briefs as well. Simon waggles his eyebrows. “We match.”

Basil huffs a laugh and lounges against the mound of pillows, posing prettily for Simon’s benefit. His skin is an unusual grey-pink throughout, save for his dusky nipples. He appears slightly more muscled than he truly is thanks to the natural brush strokes of his body hair defining his form. Simon’s gaze travels down the path painted for him, hunger evident in his expression. His eyes feel like the drag of a match along Basil’s skin, lighting him up, making him _burn_. Basil spreads his legs on instinct, and Simon growls his appreciation. The stain of precome on Basil’s otherwise-pristine pants hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“You’re really gagging for it.” Simon rubs his hands up and down over Basil’s hips and sides, simply feeling his shapes, studying them. When was the last time Simon really paid proper attention to his lover’s body…?

“It’s been a while,” Basil confesses, breathless.

“Is your husband not providing?”

Basil has to close his eyes. “We’ve…” We’ve _what_? Been busy? Been tired? “I don’t know. —There’s nothing wrong between us,” he quickly adds, eyes flying open to pin Simon with a too-serious stare. “Nothing. We— We’re just…”

“Lazy?” Simon offers with a dash of bitterness.

Basil smirks. “Overly comfortable.”

Simon smiles at the correction. “Comfort’s good,” he says, “but not when you’re too comfortable to notice you’re starving.”

Basil’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “Are you suggesting my marriage is suffering from some sort of … sex-life deficiency?”

“Yeah,” Simon blurts before he can stop himself, “not enough _Vitamin D_.”

Oh, it’s such a daft thing to laugh at, yet they both cave to unattractive snickering like it’s the easiest thing in the world. There’s laughing and playful shoving and a few clumsy kisses, and soon enough, all of their clothing is littering the floor, along with a few pillows, and their only sounds are little gasps of excitement at each tantalizing brush of skin on skin.

Basil finds himself sprawled on his back under Simon, getting his neck plastered in kisses, his long legs draped on either side of Simon’s thick, freckled thighs. He’s painfully aware of the negative space between their erections. He cants his hips in search of contact, but Simon withdraws, sitting back on his heels. He wants to simply study Basil a few moments longer.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Basil has to close his eyes again. He feels so shy under Simon’s careful study. How strange, to be uncomfortable in his own skin at this stage in his life. It all feels so new….

“Beautiful,” Simon repeats, laying a kiss on Basil’s sternum, then another, lower. “I could worship you.”

Basil arches, encouraging his descent. “I’d like that.”

Simon provides, worshipping the crease of Basil’s hip with kisses and praise: “So fit. Every inch of you.” He hooks a hand under one leg and folds it towards Basil’s chest, putting him on full display. “Fucking hell, just _look_ at you.”

“Oh, fuck—”

Simon presses hot lips to the inside of Basil’s knee, then trails down along the back of his thigh. Basil squirms, stuck between desperation and shame. He can’t recall when he last took the time to groom things properly down there, and the thought is enough to make him wilt. He digs his fingers into the comforter, fighting to abstain from covering himself with his hands. It’s difficult to feign pride in the face of such exposure, particularly when it’s been ages since he felt _worthy_ of maintenance.

The thought hits him hard.

When? When did this happen to him? To his marriage?

“He doesn’t tell you often enough, does he?” Simon murmurs, never letting his lips leave Basil’s skin. He explores all this inner thigh, the coarser hairs tickling his nose the nearer he gets to his goal.

Basil whimpers, too muddled to confirm or deny thanks to the warring humiliation and decadence of Simon’s breath along his taint.

“He’s an idiot,” Simon grunts. He relishes in the twitch of Basil’s pucker as it’s stroked by his breath. “Too self-conscious to give you the attention you deserve.”

“He _is_ an idiot,” Basil laments, “if that’s what he thinks.”

 _We’re not supposed to be talking about this_ , Simon reminds himself. He puts all the focus he can behind flattening his tongue to Basil’s entrance and savouring it with a long lick.

Basil chokes on a gasp. He has no idea when he was last eaten out. He shudders, surprised by both the sensation and the realization of just how much he’s missed this. It’s warm and _so_ wet—Simon is drooling as he feasts. He tongues at Basil, groaning, and in response the muscles flutter, pleading.

It’s stupefying—Basil is sure there was something else he had wanted to say, or further self-consciousness he had wanted to wallow in, but the slippery heat between his legs leaves him unable to do anything except moan like a virgin. Why the fuck isn’t he shoving his husband’s face down there more often? They used to do this all the time, back when they were young and rabid. What’s there to be shy about _now_?

Damn, Simon was right: comfort can all too easily disguise these things.

They’re here tonight because the fear of it being new again is the _good_ kind of scary. But the fear of things getting _old_ … of _themselves_ getting old …

“Idiots,” Basil moans.

“ _Hmmph?_ ” Simon manages, blissfully smothered. He buries his nose under Basil’s bollocks, huffing the heady scent he finds there while lapping at Basil’s hole.

Basil releases a sound, half-sob, half-growl. Emboldened by Simon’s obvious ardour, he sinks both hands into Simon’s hair, trapping him and grinding against his face. They scramble, Basil planting his feet on the bed for better leverage and Simon grasping his hips in encouragement. Basil rides Simon’s face in a frenzy, getting his rim sucked and bit in retaliation.

“Seven hells—!”

“ _Mmmmnn…_ ”

Freeing a hand from Simon’s hair, Basil grabs at himself, holding his balls out of the way. Simon uses the opportunity to come up for air, tongue hanging as he gasps. Basil gyrates about in search for any bit of contact with that dribbling tongue. Simon is sure to lave at everything on offer, his heavy breaths cooling Basil’s wet skin and making him whine.

“So fucking beautiful,” Simon groans like he can’t stand it. “Delicious. He’s a lucky, lucky man. Doesn’t deserve you.”

Basil can handle teasing and shame and roughness, but he can’t abide by this; he plants a foot on Simon’s shoulder, shoving him at length as he lifts himself onto his elbows. “Don’t speak badly about my husband,” Basil bites out. “That’s _my_ job.”

Simon tucks his head down to nuzzle a smirk against Basil’s foot. “But you agree.”

Basil sneers and nudges his foot at Simon’s impertinent mouth. “Oh, he’s lucky all right. But so am I.” He watches in fascination as Simon busies himself with licking between the offered first and second toes. Disgusting. Basil loves it. “I’ve known him for thirty years, and he’s still the most marvellous man I’ve ever met. In every possible way.”

Simon emits a truly unattractive sound of derision around Basil’s big toe where he’s currently suckling. The idea of posh, perfect Basil feeling _lucky_ to bed anyone other than a bloody supermodel is ridiculous. Who could possibly compare? Not Simon, of that he’s certain. He’s no Adonis, and he’s not good for intellectual conversation or suave flirting. He’s not good for much at all, really—never has been.

But at least he can have this, Basil’s perfect toes in his clumsy mouth. He’s good for this much.

Basil can sense the shift in Simon; he’s well-versed in spotting the weight of negativity that often cloaks his husband’s shoulders. It’s Basil’s turn to express his reverence. He urges Simon to his feet and kneels at the edge of the bed to better adore him.

“What’s all this?” Simon asks, breath getting shaky as Basil nips sweetly down his throat.

“You’re not the only one who wants his mouth on something.” Basil kneads the plushness of Simon’s waist while kissing every mole on his neck and chest, leisurely making his way towards a nipple. Simon’s skin is tawny and flushes easily; Basil is delighted to watch his nipple darken further as it’s coaxed with lips and tongue. He draws it into his mouth and emits a guttural noise at the feel of it hardening. He sucks on it, tight, eyes closing from the bliss of Simon’s nipple swelling against his tongue.

Simon presses a hand into Basil’s hair. “Funny, you don’t strike me as a tits man.”

Basil nuzzles between them, inhaling deep. “Then you truly don’t know me after all.”

Simon hums his amusement. He guides Basil to the other side and relishes in the cool suckle of Basil’s mouth. It’s strange and good, a distant tingle of pleasure that morphs gradually into an exquisite throb as this nipple is made to match the other.

“Damn,” Simon grunts and squirms under the abuse, but Basil is far from done—he pulls more of Simon’s pec into his mouth, latching on and suckling with intent. “You expecting something to come out, baby? Afraid I’m going to disappoint you.”

Basil vibrates Simon with a growl before releasing him to instead press a cheek into the plushness, gazing up through his lashes with not a hint of innocence. “I assure you, darling, I can drink from your tits,” he slurs. Then he has a cruel smile, pulling back his lips to show off the two long fangs that have filled his mouth.

“Fuuuuuck me,” Simon keens.

Basil lets his lips catch on Simon’s nipple as he coos, “Not afraid, are we?”

“More like painfully aroused.” Unable to help himself, Simon grabs Basil by the jaw with both hands, longing to inspect those menacing teeth. He prods into Basil’s mouth with his thumbs, and Basil tips his head back and opens wide without needing to be asked. “Merlin Almighty. You just keep getting hotter and hotter,” Simon rasps. He sweeps his thumbs over Basil’s gums and then down his fangs. Basil moans and swirls his tongue about, prodding the tip of a fang and licking Simon’s fingers. His goading is effective; Simon is dizzy with lust. “You wanna suck on something, yeah?”

Basil emits a sound of agreement, and the next thing he knows, something long and ropelike is slithering up his body and the heavy black spade of a devilish tail is weighing down his tongue.

“I’m a monster, too,” Simon hisses.

He’s mesmerized by how elated Basil looks at this confession, welcoming the tail into his mouth without hesitation. The spade clacks against Basil’s fangs, sending twinges of confusing pleasure through each of them. Simon used to hate being burdened with his secret draconic appendages, but he’s come to appreciate them more over the years, and now he’s able to control them effortlessly. He often keeps his wings hidden—they tend to be more of a hindrance during sex than anything—but the tail has proven itself to be quite useful, and he’s glad to have unfurled it for this romp.

Simon swoops his tail around Basil, dragging the wet spade down his back to then encircle his waist.

“Going to show me what that tail can do?” Basil purrs.

“Later. First, you show me what those fangs can do.” Simon cups his chest in offering. “Drink.”

Basil needs no further invitation to make his way inside; he closes his mouth over Simon and dips his fangs into the supple flesh. A long, deep sound flows out of Simon, as involuntary as the blood flowing into Basil’s mouth. The punctures are shallow, which means Basil can take his time suckling his sustenance. He moans through each luxurious swallow, and his body pulses, ready to receive. Simon’s blood is rich, heavy with flavour. Basil hasn’t tasted blood this good in months. (Years?) He hadn’t even noticed he’s been wasting away with thirst this whole time.

Simon uses one hand to gather Basil’s hair back into a ponytail and slides the other down to grip his own agonizing hardness. He’s not sure if Basil is consciously wanking right now, but either way, he’s certainly got the right idea. They yank at themselves through the intimate exchange. Eventually, Simon leads Basil off by the hair and silences the whines of protest by pressing his other nipple to Basil’s bloody lips. Simon arches into the matching bite, just above his areola. He holds Basil close, watching and wanking, spurred by the wetness collecting on Basil’s lashes.

They hang in the moment for as long as they can. Only so much blood can be lured out of the superficial wounds. When Basil finally pulls away, it’s with a sob of relief. His thirst is slaked, though there’s a desire to be gluttonous still tingling in his gums. He doesn’t care—a far more pressing hunger is consuming him.

Basil flops back and parts his legs, hand still working over his cock. “Fill me,” he orders. Simon is impressed by how demanding he can sound while looking so thoroughly sloshed.

“Needy little thing.” Simon crawls back onto the bed, settling at Basil’s hip, and he spares them both any further dallying by immediately rubbing his fingertips at Basil’s pucker. “It’s this hole you want it in now, I take it.”

“What a stupid question—”

Basil’s imperiousness is melted away from the sear of two blunt digits insisting on being let in. Simon’s fingers are calloused and merciless as they seek Basil’s weak spot with terrifying competence and bear against that wall with the heat of a brand. Basil curses to every poet his addled mind can call forth.

Simon litters his stomach in kisses, chuckling. It’s so sweet, almost tender, a jarring contrast to the pressure inside. Basil writhes in bliss.

“Like that, Basil?”

“Love it, love it, oh fuck, I love you—”

A rush goes through them both at the slip-up. Simon recovers first, nipping Basil’s hip and relieving him of the direct pressure against his prostate. Basil slumps, breathing hard.

Simon can’t resist taking the piss. “You sure fall in love easily. I feel awful for your husband.” 

Basil drums up an impressive sneer. “I take it back. I hate you.”

“You’ll feel differently once I give you my dick.”

“Mmmnn…” Basil lazily strokes himself through his recovery. “Only if you know how to use it.”

“Easy.” Simon pets at the softness squeezing on his fingers. “Already found where to aim.” He’s pleased by the snort this earns him. “Shall we get to it? You must still be hungry.”

Basil licks his lips. “I am…”

“I’ll take care of you. Let you drain my balls dry.”

Basil tsks, but that doesn’t stop him from rocking his hips. “You can’t come inside me.”

Simon’s eyebrows shoot up comically. “Why?”

“What if my husband sees?”

Simon’s grateful he’s already on his knees, because he’s fairly certain they would be buckling otherwise. “Oh, _Basil_ …,” he growls. The sound paired with the darkening of Simon’s gaze makes Basil’s balls tighten. “Do you honestly think I’ll let you leave here without looking like you’ve just been shagged to within an inch of your life? _Everyone_ is going to be able to tell, whether or not you’re also leaking my jizz.”

“Hngh— F— _fuckkkk_ ,” Basil hisses as he’s racked with anticipatory shivers. Simon hooks his fingers just so, milking Basil through it until he’s drooling and begging. Well, no, not begging: “D-do it then, you fucking bastard.”

Simon has to squeeze himself too hard to ensure he doesn’t accidentally blow all over Basil’s stomach. (Though the thought is appealing.) “Say please, sweetheart.”

Basil bares his teeth and rolls his hips. “ _No_.”

“You want it bad enough to fuck yourself on my fingers, but you won’t ask nicely?”

“That’s right,” he sneers. “Only my husband gets to hear me beg.”

Simon emits a rough noise. “Behave for him, do you?”

“Sometimes.” Basil clenches and unclenches around Simon’s fingers. It’s a challenge.

“Not tonight, though.” Simon is panting as the desperation to shove his cock inside this little minx grows all the more unbearable. “Tonight, you’re a naughty, disobedient slag, and I’m going to fuck you raw.”

Basil’s grin is lethal even without fangs. “Yes. You are.”

Before Simon can process it, Basil wrenches off Simon’s fingers and flips over, presenting himself on his hands and knees. It’s not often he makes use of his vampire speed, but it’s difficult _not_ to after drinking Simon’s blood. Besides, they’re clearly not denying themselves anything tonight.

“Now _do it_ ,” Basil snaps, “or you’ll be the one fucked raw tonight.”

“Tempting,” Simon admits, voice catching. “But maybe next time.” He clears his throat, then lands spit onto both his hand and the arse so eagerly displayed for him. Simon gives himself a few wet tugs before smearing his tip on Basil’s hole, nudging circles along the puffy rim.

Basil wriggles, moaning in a mix of pleasure and impatience. “Come on, come on—”

“Do you shake your arse at him like this? Does he know what a slut for it you are?”

Basil growls and grabs fistfuls of the sheets. “He most certainly does, so spare me the preamble and start fucking me like the slut I am.”

Simon laughs, delirious with lust for this man. He spreads Basil with his thumbs and kisses the subtle gape there with the tip of his cock, over and over, shallowly rocking his hips. “Your poor husband … Will you show off to him when you get home?”

“If … if he asks.”

“I think he will.” Simon stills his hips, delighted to watch Basil keep up the rhythm on his behalf. “He’ll want to see for himself what you did tonight.”

“I’ll show him,” Basil gasps. “Do it. Fuck me. _Do it_. Give me something to show.”

Simon sets his jaw and spreads Basil wider with his hands. “Gonna wreck you,” he growls.

“Yes…! Fuck—”

“Gonna make a mess of you.”

“Fuck, yes, come on,” Basil whines. “Do it, Simon, fuck me, use me, _Crowley_ , use me, use me, _please_ —!”

“ _There_ we go—got you to say please.”

Basil arches with a cry as he’s suddenly split open by the slick head of Simon’s cock, the entirety of it popping inside with ease despite the tight fit. Any natural resistance is overridden by desire. Once the flare of Simon’s head is in, Basil’s greedy body clenches a seal around it.

“You’re awful,” Basil gasps.

Simon jerks his hips, testing the possessiveness of Basil’s tight ring. “Am I?”

Basil sinks onto his elbows, trembling. “The worst,” he moans.

“And yet you begged to take my cock. Having regrets? I could pull out.”

“I will _murder_ you if you stop.”

Simon chuckles lowly. “All right, then. You asked for it, _Basil_.”

In contrast to the start, being fed the remainder of Simon’s length is a tortuously slow event. Fervour boils in their veins; Basil swears he can feel the mingling of Simon’s blood into his own bloodstream, can feel the throb of Simon’s pulse as it intrudes his arse inch by glorious inch. He blindly reaches back to grab Simon’s hand, then tugs it up to his mouth, and Simon doesn’t need any further convincing to penetrate Basil from this end, as well. Basil sucks on Simon’s fingers, surrendering his entire body to the process of being filled, surrendering to Simon.

Simon, Simon, _Simon_ —

They fuck, slow and deep. They fit their bodies together. They exchange lusty words of encouragement, singing along with the rhythm of their thrusts. It’s an evolving thing, coursing through them, one movement flowing into the next, building, mounting, a crescendo that makes the bed join in with squeaky percussion.

Basil can’t recall the last time he felt so consumed by sex. All he can do is succumb to the moment, his body moaning and quivering of its own accord, hips bucking to Simon’s pace. He feels like his existence has simultaneously narrowed to being only a hole needing to be filled, yet also like he’s expanding past the limits of his physical form, threatening to explode.

“Oh, fuck,” he sobs, the realization rushing forth, “I’m gonna come—”

“Not yet.” Simon’s voice is rough like the nails he drags down Basil’s back, a sensation which only spurs Basil on more.

“I can’t— I have to—”

“I said not yet,” Simon insists. He yanks himself out of Basil without warning, eliciting a long, tortured whine from his desperate lover.

Simon breathes hard, watching every answering gasp of Basil’s woefully empty hole. He doesn’t get to enjoy the view for long—Basil retaliates with fury. Before Simon realizes it, he’s been thrown onto his back and straddled by Basil’s deceptively strong thighs.

“I thought I made it clear you’re not allowed to stop,” Basil snarls. He reaches down to steady Simon’s cock and begins sinking onto it. He hisses with the pleasure of being filled once more.

“And _you’re_ not allowed to come.” Simon tries to sound fierce about it, but he’s too affected by the glorious sight of this beautiful man claiming every inch of him.

Basil curls his lip. “Try to stop me.”

He rolls his hips, grinding his walls against Simon’s shapes. His groans are cut off with a broken shout when Simon’s tail snakes its way around Basil’s cock and bollocks with a pointed squeeze.

“Bastard..!”

“Just rising up to the challenge, sweetheart.” Simon rubs sweaty palms up and down Basil’s straining quads, and the spade of his tail nestles like the sweetest of threats into the secret softness of Basil’s inner thigh. “Can’t have you finishing before me.”

“I hate you,” Basil says again.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry to put you to work.”

Basil scoffs. “I happen to like this position, actually. You’re at my mercy like this.” He slides his hands up Simon’s torso to curl his grip over still-tender pecs. He squeezes until his nails leave behind crescent marks of insinuation on skin already decorated with constellations made of freckle and fang.

The threat makes Simon’s lust grow impossibly stronger.

Basil may say he hates this, but Simon loves it. He loves everything about it.

A low warble falls out of Baz at the slow tightening of Simon’s tail, a wicked reminder of the power still held over him. As if he could forget—as if he would _want_ to.

Basil meant it earlier—he truthfully loves this. He loves that this is what sex between them is like. Fighting in place. Mutual surrender.

Basil gets to work, repositioning his weight onto the balls of his feet. Squatting on Simon’s cock like this is more challenging—and much more embarrassing, which has its own appeal. He fucks himself on Simon, the muscles in his thighs and abdominals quivering with exertion. He looks better than anything Simon could conjure up in a wet dream. And then, as though Basil read his mind, he says, “Plus, the view from up here is outstanding.”

Simon laughs brokenly. “That’s my line.”

Basil preens, arching and spreading to improve Simon’s view. “You’re all red-faced and smug. So self-satisfied,” Basil drawls, his mouth twisted as he continues a charade of disgust. “Proud of yourself for getting me into bed with you?”

“Of course.”

“Good. You should be.”

Basil lifts himself almost entirely off until he can feel the flare of Simon’s glans stretching his rim. He holds there, letting Simon bask in sweet agony—then he drops down hard, knocking the air out of both of them. Without giving himself time to recover, Basil starts fucking Simon in earnest.

“Despite what you may think of me,” Basil gasps out, “I don’t just shag any handsome man I see. I— _ah!_ —have a very particular type.”

“Let me guess: they all have vampire kinks and thick cocks?”

Baz glowers, though its effectiveness is reduced by how avidly he’s clenching on the subject matter. “You’re delusional if you think the shape of your cock is anything except non-existent in those awful jeans.”

Simon paws at Basil’s thighs. “I’ll wear joggers next time.”

“I hate joggers,” Basil despairs. This, too, is rendered ineffective by the way he throws his head back and begins fondling his own chest.

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to— _oh, fuck—_! G-going to stop you from hopping on my dick again.” Simon pushes up into Basil for emphasis and is rewarded with a wanton cry. “And you do it so well. Hnnghh, fucking hell— You know what the view looks like from here, baby?”

Basil growls menacingly. Then he reaches an arm back to brace himself on Simon’s thigh so he can bounce faster, which is all the response Simon needs:

“Looks to me,” Simon gasps, “like you’re a cock-hungry whore—”

“ _Ahhhnn!”_

“—who’s getting off on the idea of your husband finding out.”

“ _No…!_ ”

“Ohhh, Basil,” Simon purrs while lovingly petting his bollocks, all swollen and dark from the clamp of Simon’s tail. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not!” he snarls, writhing, feverish. “I’m getting off on the _promise_ of him finding out!”

Simon groans a tangle of profanities at the surge of pleasure this confession sends through him. “Jesus Christ—”

Basil hangs his head back and grinds himself on Simon with an urgency that just keeps building. A bead of sweat runs down the cleft of his chest, captivating Simon as it journeys from one patch of body hair to the next, ultimately getting lost somewhere in Basil’s pubes. Any disappointment Simon may have felt is swiftly replaced when his attention is grabbed by the bob of Basil’s erection; copious precome is dribbling from the tip. Simon’s mouth waters.

“Simon, oh, please, let me go, I can’t take it,” he blubbers. “I’ve worked so hard, been such a good slut for you, Crowley, your tail, please—”

“Shhh, shh, it’s okay.” He rubs Basil wherever he can reach while slowly unwinding his tail. “All better. You can come whenever you want now.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

Simon scoops up Basil’s precome with the spade of his tail and uses the slickness to stroke the flat part along Basil’s underside. Simon gets a kick out of knowing this lovely cock is engorged with some of _his_ blood. He’s claiming Basil every way he can.

A little more couldn’t hurt. He wants Basil to hit his orgasm while revelling in _exactly_ what they’ve done here tonight.

Simon wanks Basil with his tail and drops his voice to a low menace: “When you get home, your husband’s going to have you strip naked. He’s going to inspect you all over, gonna smell the sweat and sex on you.”

“Oh ... Oh shit....”

“That’s right. It’ll be so obvious, sweetheart. But he’ll have you bend over anyway. Make you hold yourself open so he can really see how used you are.”

“Fuck— Simon— _Simon_ , Crowley…!”

“I bet he’d never guess you did it to yourself. Crawled on top and buggered yourself stupid.”

“I’d tell him,” Basil whines. “He should know … just how bad I’ve been…!”

“ _Hnnghh_ —! You want him to punish you real good, huh?”

“Yes—fuck, yes!”

“Bend you over his knee—”

Basil falters, too fuck-drunk and on the brink to maintain anything more than a pathetic twitch of his hips. “Gonna— Simon—!”

Simon unleashes an animalistic sound and leaps into action: He snatches Basil before his legs give out and hoists him further up the bed, cock springing free from his arse in the most superbly brutal way. Basil howls from the overstimulation, and Simon continues to provide, replacing his tail with his hand, pumping with a tight twist, just how Basil likes it—

Basil’s orgasm is seemingly endless. A litany of nonsense spills from both of them as he shoots thick ropes of come, body shuddering wildly. Simon urges him on (“Give it to me, that’s it, mmmm, come on my tits too, there you go—”), and Basil mindlessly obeys, splattering Simon’s face and chest in it, a few lucky shots getting right in Simon’s mouth as he pants like a dog. Basil moans and moans, continuing to spasm long after Simon’s surely milked every last drop available from his backed-up balls.

Sagging with equal parts exhaustion and relief, Basil flops over next to Simon. They rest there side by side on their backs for a long, noisy moment as Basil struggles to catch his breath and Simon slurps up every last drop of semen he can find.

“Tastes good, hmm?” Basil jeers, watching Simon through half-lidded eyes. “Now who’s the slut?”

Simon moans happily while licking his fingers clean. “You sound jealous. Don’t worry, you’ll get fed, too.” Basil half-heartedly raises an eyebrow, but before he can request further elaboration, Simon pushes Basil’s legs up and gets himself positioned, making the answer very clear.

“Hold your legs,” he orders, and Basil does, though not without frowning. He’s all drowsy and boneless. And his arse is trembling, too, the walls squeezing around nothing even though he’s so thoroughly reamed that it feels like Simon’s still there.

“I could have sworn I told you not to come inside,” Basil mewls while Simon jerks off against him, tip nudging at his swollen entrance. Despite complaining, he reaches down to pull himself open further and pushes his hole out to greet Simon.

Simon rubs frantically, grunting, jostling his way inside, transfixed by the visuals. “Gotta make sure hubby has something really good to see, yeah?” he grits out. “Besides, wouldn’t be polite to take you for a spin and then— _hnnghh—_ return you without filling you up.”

Basil rumbles a series of low whimpers as he gets all churned up from Simon’s filthy cock and filthier words. “You better give me all you’ve got,” he whinges. He releases himself, hooks his legs around Simon’s waist, and pulls him down by the shoulders until they’re nose-to-nose. “I want to feel the mess of you in my pants the whole way home,” Basil murmurs into Simon’s mouth, “and still have enough left inside to make a show of squeezing it out for my husband.”

“ _Holy fuck_ —” Simon cries before smashing his lips against Basil’s. This man, oh Merlin, this man is going to be the death of him, and he’s so fucking grateful for it. Simon is too far gone to even remember how to kiss properly, mostly panting and moaning into Basil’s mouth while slamming into his tightness. All finesse is long gone; he ruts until his climax finally bursts free, and then he keeps on rutting until he’s sure the throbbing has faded. And then, just in case, he leans back and tugs at his dick while pulling out, encouraging even just one more dribble if he can get it. Basil purrs for him the whole time, praising, pleading (“ohhh yes, darling, fill me with it, make me feel it, pump it all into me, I want every drop—”), and he relishes in the knowledge of how well Simon bred him.

Nothing if not stubborn, Simon is sure to keep at it until he starts to go soft. Basil can’t manage another erection, but all the attention makes him quiver and ache just the same. Simon compliments him for having such a gorgeous, greedy hole. Basil leaks unintentionally in response, then they both experience the blissful torture of Simon pushing the seed back in with his flaccid cock.

Eventually, Simon retreats to go collect their pants. Basil doesn’t move. He allows Simon to slide his briefs on.

He feels raw and exposed and vulnerable.

He feels used.

It’s _so_ fucking good.

Simon comes to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning over to brush Basil’s sex-hair off his sweaty brow. His touch is gentle and so is his kiss when Basil cups him by the back of the neck and guides him down for it.

“All right…?” Simon whispers while nuzzling their noses together.

Baz smiles dreamily. “Mmmm. You…?”

“Yeah.” He kisses Baz again. And then again, longer. Finally, he pulls back and clears his throat. “Right, well. I should get going. Let you get home to your poor husband.”

“Right.” Baz props himself up on his elbows so that he can better watch as Simon searches for his belongings and clumsily redresses. Such a pity to see him cover up his luscious body, but Baz finds a wicked comfort in knowing Simon’s chest is still sporting the evidence of Baz’s assault under his clothes. That can be their little secret.

Simon hesitates by the hotel room door, chewing his lip. His body is screaming at him to get back in bed to cherish Baz, with his tacky skin and untamed hair and pokey joints. Simon wants it all. But that’s not what this is. And he enjoys the sting of having such a strong need suppressed. It will be all the sweeter when he finally gets to feel Baz in his arms again.

“See you around, Basil,” he says from the doorway, managing a grin that looks more confident than he feels. “Thanks for the shag.”

And then he’s off. The game is over.

Crowley …

Baz eventually drags himself to his feet and goes through the shameful process of picking his clothes off the floor, shaking them out, then donning them again, all while the threat of leaking Simon’s jizz hangs over his head.

He’s still a bit dazed….

Baz’s phone pings. He fishes it out of his jacket.

There’s a new message waiting for him in the conversation he had been checking far, far earlier this evening.

 **Snow:** sure ur ok? Was it ok that I left??? I can come back

Baz smiles, warmth blooming in his chest.

He sends back a response: _‘I’m more than ok, love. And you?’_

Tingly with the sort of butterflies he hasn’t felt in over a decade, Baz tries to hurry through getting himself looking presentable enough to be seen in public. Or by the hotel concierge and his Uber driver, at least.

More new messages tumble in.

 **Snow:** yeh im fine!!

— actually fine, not just saying I’m fine

— that was

— yeah

— wow

— great

— lol

— none of this is sarcasm btw in case ur confused

Baz can’t help but laugh. Merlin and Morgana, he loves this idiot so much….

With a few **clean as a whistle** s and **as you were** s to set the room to rights, Baz makes sure to leave the hotel behind free of any evidence of what went on there tonight. His body, however … well. His legs are like peculiarly stiff jello, his arse is throbbing, there’s a crick in his neck, and he feels positively covered in filth.

He feels old.

And gross.

And like used goods.

And yet …

He feels like a new man.

He can’t wait to show his husband.

Baz sends off a few more texts as he waits for his ride home:

_‘Noted._

_‘Now, do you think you can get into character again, oh darling husband of mine?_

_‘I’ll be home soon… and I think you’ll find I’ve been quite naughty._

_‘And put your fucking wedding ring back on.’_


End file.
